Page 30 of Love Felt Like This

A man’s voice, giddy with excitement, almost giggling through a sentence, asks, “Griffin, when did you start dating?”

Ah shit.

The man sitting across the aisle rises from his booth with a camera. The strap tugs on his gangly neck, bunching up the shoulders of his polo tee. The paparazzi knew I was here. Or, just like running into Beau, it’s a terrible twist of fate, as is life in LA sometimes.

Another camera flash. Another shutter snap.

“And what’s your name?” the paparazzo asks, pointing his bulky camera at Beverly.

Blood rushes from my chest up my neck to sizzle at the top of my head.

They’re absolutely not bringing her into this.

I rush to stand, stepping in front of the camera right when it flashes again, blocking his view with my body. I grab the lens of his camera in my fist, whipping it down to point at the floor.

“Watch it before I break your gear.”

On instinct, he steps back. Smart man.

I turn around to lean into Beverly’s booth seat. Her palms cover her face. It looks practiced. This must not be her first run-in with the press. I hate that for her.

“Bev.” I gingerly reach out to remove her hands from her cheeks. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” she murmurs, almost in a whimper. It’s like all the shine in her sunny cheeks was sucked out of her. I don’t like this change of demeanor. Not one bit.

“Anywhere,” I answer.

I hold out my opposite hand in assistance. She blinks at it, swallows, then nods, sliding her fingers into my palm. I wrap our hands together, tugging her up from the seat. Shifting my other hand from her forearm to around her waist, I steady her beside me.

The man’s camera lens is raised and pointed at us again.

“Griffin, tell us about your secret girlfriend!”

Secrets. Always after my secrets.

If Robin could see me now…she’d say she was right. And I couldn’t disagree.

I grit my jaw and clench my fists. Beverly grabs my flexed forearm.

“Don’t,” she says quickly. “Let’s just go.”

I freeze, blinking at her hand trailing away from my forearm as she takes the tension with it. Her eyebrows are raised, nearly hidden under her wispy bangs. Her lips are in a solid line, and she’s staring at me tentatively, like I’m a caged animal she’s taming.

Did she think I was going to hit him?

I don’t have time to consider. Another camera flash goes off. She covers her face, but I don’t know if she was quick enough. Her purse slides down her arm. I catch it and sling it over my shoulder.

“Nice! So protective!” the paparazzo croons. “How did you meet?”

Another photo snaps.

I ignore him.

Beau stands there in shock with his head like a Ping-Pong ball, bouncing between me, Beverly, and the camera. When I tuck Beverly into my side to walk out, he’s in our way, so I shoulder check past him. He stumbles onto his back foot, encased in brown oxfords and high wool socks.

What a pretentious prick. You’re not at a college; you’re in LA.

I hurry us down the aisle. Heads poke out from their curtained booths. It’s so dark, I can barely see. Christ, they need more lamps in this place.